His fearful symmetry
by All-I-need
Summary: What exactly went on in Patrick Jane's head when he came home that fateful night and during the time afterwards? This is just a oneshot trying to answer this question. Warning: Dark.


Hello there. This is my first try at a Mentalist fanfiction - and in English, nonetheless. I wrote this story mainly because I couldn´t get it out of my head, but also because I wanted to experiment with this style of writing. My usual style is completely different and a lot more humorous, so I`d be extremely grateful for feedback of any kind. And now I`m going to stop rambling and let you read.

Usual disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or any of the show´s characters. I also do not earn money with this - though I definitely wouldn`t mind.

* * *

Everything is dark when he comes home. The house is silent and he is careful not to make any noise. With a small smile he puts the pink child`s bicycle away that is once again standing in the middle of the hallway, where he has stumbled over it a hundred times. He puts it on the floor as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake them up. They`re probably sleeping already. It´s so late, much later than originally planned. He should`ve been home hours ago. The people in the television studio held him up and again their meaningless platitudes cost him several hours he would`ve rather spent in the company of his family.

The clock on the wall is ticking quietly in the background while he places his keys on the small table next to the door and walks towards the stairs. The corners of his mouth turn upwards, he just can`t help it. The thought of seeing them makes him smile involuntarily. As he reaches the top of the stairs, the smile freezes on his face.

A piece of paper sticks to the door. In A4 format, common printing paper. The information seems to jump right at him even before he gets close enough to read the message. A cold shiver runs down his back. Suddenly he notices that the silence is different. Heavy. Wrong. _Too_ silent. _A dead silence_, a small voice in his head whispers. His heart sinks right into his stomach, maybe even into his left knee, when he is close enough to the bedroom door to read the message. The hairs on the back of his neck are suddenly standing on edge.

_Mr Jane ... don`t like ... worm ... lovely wife ... child ... _word fragments are swirling through his mind while the letters blur in his vision. He stares at the signature and all of a sudden his heart is back, jumping into his throat, beating so hard he thinks he can`t breathe anymore.

_Red John_

His hand is on the door handle before he knows how it got there. A small part of him clings to the absurd hope that all of this is nothing but a tasteless joke.

The hope dissolves into nothingness before he has even opened the door more than a centimeter. An unfamiliar smell greets him, long forgotten evolutionary instincts scream alarm and his stomach turns. The certainty of what he`ll find upon entering the room takes his breath away. His thoughts, racing only seconds before, abruptly freeze and then continue to move in slow motion, just as slowly as the door which he now pushes open. _Please no_. In his head there`s only room for one thought now. _Everything, just not this. Please._

For a moment, time stands still. The silence is pressing on his ears, so loud that he thinks his eardrums might burst. Moonlight is falling in through the window, a view he has always considered to be beautiful. Now he wishes it was dark. Or doesn`t he? He doesn`t know. Isn`t it better to see the truth in this silvery gloom instead of the bright light of the ceiling lamp?

The red smiley on the wall seems to laugh at him, taunting him and his weakness.

His gaze is glued to the single red drop slowly making its way downwards, leaving a red trail on the white wall and finally poising.

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

When he first emerges from the darkness, he is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room.

How did he get there? He can´t remember.

He is sitting on the carpet with his legs crossed, feeling a weight on them.

Familiar.

He lowers his gaze and looks at their faces. They`re both lying with their heads in his lap, sleeping.

Closed eyes.

Motionless.

Peaceful.

He can hardly decide whom to look at. He used to think that Angela was the most beautiful thing in the world. Then Charlotte was born and now he isn`t entirely sure anymore.

He stares at them, not making a sound. He doesn`t want to wake them, not when they`re looking so peaceful.

A strand of hair is hanging in Charlotte`s face, probably tickling her nose. He raises his hand to strike the lock off. Mid-movement, he freezes when the moonlight falls onto his hand. Moonlight? It`s so bright. Yellow. Warm.

He blankly stares at his hand.

Red. So red. Fingers, palm, the back of his hand. Even his wrists.

_What happened? _He can`t remember.

Is he injured? He doesn`t know.

Fear. A dark suspicion is creeping up on him. He understands that, deep inside his mind, he already knows what happened. A small voice speaks up, whispering nonexistent words into his ear.

_No!_

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

The next time he comes to his senses, he is sitting in the same position as before. Unchanged.

The red smiley on the wall is laughing at him.

Voices.

He hears them as if through a piece of cotton wool.

A familiar sound. His name? He doesn´t know.

The room is gloomy. Where has the light gone? Was there even any light at all?

Disappeared. Gone. Dark.

Blue and red lights are flashing, go off, flash again. Somewhere in his mind he knows that they mean something. He can`t grasp it.

Shouts.

Steps. The stair creaks.

_Is someone in the house?_

Voices. Far away? Close by? Doesn´t matter. He hardly registers them.

_"Good God!"_

_"Oh my fucking God!_

_"The Lord help us!"_

His gaze flickers to the door then back to his angels.

Relief. They`re still sleeping. The intruders didn`t wake them.

_"Sir? Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Can you get up?"_

Are they talking to him? He doesn´t react. Sings a lullaby, quietly, for Charlotte.

Word fragments penetrate his mind.

_"Help ... catatonic ... shock ... Sophie Miller ... as soon as possible ... help ... "_

One single statement hangs above all others, loud and clear, floating through the room like a black thundercloud.

_"Red John has struck again. It looks bad."_

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

When he comes out of his state of shock again, it`s just in time to see hands reaching for Charlotte.

He wraps his arms around the petite form of his daughter and his wordless scream of anger makes the intruders back off.

"Don`t you dare touch her!," he hisses. It`s the first sentence he utters.

They want to disagree, but there`s a strange look in his eyes that stops them.

_(Later the paramedic writes into his protocol: "... like a wild animal that has been backed into a corner, dangerous and unpredictable, ready to attack at any moment ...")_

He presses Charlotte closer and buries his face in her thick blond locks, slowly rocking her back and forth. She still doesn`t wake up.

Fear.

What`s up with her? Why is she so deeply asleep?

There is tomato juice on her pyjama, the fabric is stained red. She must have drunken a glass of it before she went to bed, like she often does.

_"Sir, we only want to help you. Please. There`s an ambulance waiting outside."_

He slowly raises his head.

_Ambulance?_

Panic.

Maybe Charlotte is sick. Angela is gone. Maybe she is the one who called the ambulance. She`s probably downstairs, talking to the paramedics while he is wasting precious time.

He bends down to Charlotte, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Cold.

Her skin is ice-cold and a little clammy.

Maybe she has a fever.

He shouldn`t have left. His daughter is sick, she needs him.

Almost automatically he changes his hold on her, pushing one arm under the back of her knees and the other one under her shoulder blades. Her head falls against his shoulder, her hair is tickling his arm.

Slowly he stands up, staggering slightly and struggling to keep his balance.

Right away, hands are reaching to steady him, but he backs away.

"I`ll take her." The speaker takes a step towards him.

His grip on his daughter tightens.

"If you touch her, I`ll kill you."

Calm. Cold.

The intruders are obviously taking his thread seriously because they retreat, opening a path to the door.

He takes a step, then freezes mid-movement, his gaze locked on the wall.

Smiley. A red smiley.

Blood red.

Alarm bells are ringing in his head. There is something, something related to that smiley. He knows that symbol, has seen it several times before.

_Where?_ He doesn`t know.

Cold dread spreads within him. Something is wrong.

He staggers, pressing Charlotte closer to his chest. Support. His daughter needs him. He can take care of the smiley later.

Who painted it on the wall? He doesn´t know.

The smiley is laughing at him.

He averts his gaze, finally moving again.

Angela is waiting downstairs. With the ambulance. He needs to get to her. Charlotte needs to get to her.

He leaves the room and the intruders release their breath, relieved. Cops, he now realizes. And paramedics.

_Why didn`t they help Charlotte right away?_ He will wipe the floor with them later.

His brain rigorously blocks out the impressions assailing him.

He doesn´t notice that the whole room is covered in blood.

When the information finally gets through to him, he`s already standing in front of the house, uncomprehendingly staring at the hearse.

A grey casket made of hard plastic is just being loaded into it.

Angela is nowhere to be seen.

Someone takes Charlotte out of his arms, carrying her to the dark car, and suddenly his mental barricade, which has so far allowed him to function, breaks.

His scream is forever burned into the memory of everyone present as he collapses.

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

He opens his eyes and sees ... white.

The contrast to the darkness which seems to be only a blink of an eye away makes him want to laugh.

Then the memory comes back and he feels like he`s chocking on the expression of humor.

No sound passes his lips, except for a gurgling sound, somewhere between a scream and a sob, so quiet that he almost can`t hear it.

He sits up because he doesn`t have the strength to keep lying down. How dare he lie on a bed when **they** lied on the cold carpet?

Unconsciously his eyes are scanning the room, searching for ... what? He doesn´t know.

A knife maybe. Or something made of glass. A piece of rope.

No gun. He hates guns.

_Maybe you could grow to like one if it gives you what you want._ The small voice in his head is alluring. It would be so easy to follow its words.

_What do I want?_

To die.

White ceiling, white walls, white floor. The blankets: white. No window. Artificial light, white light.

The brightness is mocking him.

How can there be light when the sun has fallen from the sky? How can there be anything but the black, cold emptiness that fills him?

Fills. Surrounds. Suffocates.

He feels like he`s choking, but he doesn`t bother breathing heavier or even gasping for the desperately needed air.

He doesn`t need air.

He needs ... what?

To die.

Yes, that`s it. To die. If he could, he`d strangle himself. Anything, just to escape this emptiness. Back. To _them_. Where he belongs.

_Do you even have the right to that?_

Does he?

A right to what?

_To be with __**them**__._

Yes!

No.

Maybe?

The small voice in his mind is the only part of his brain that still seems to function. Analysing the situation.

_You killed _them_._

No!

_You challenged __**him**__._

Unintentionally. It wasn`t on purpose. He never wanted to ...

_It´s all your fault!_

He is fiercely shaking his head. His thoughts are whirling.

_Stop. Stop that!_

Yes. Stop that. Just stop. Stop breathing, stop living.

Make it stop.

The pain. The emptiness. The cold. The guilt.

His heart is racing in his chest.

How can it still beat, now that there isn`t any reason to do so? Now that the sole purpose of his heart is to stop beating, so that _it _will stop. So that everything will stop.

He starts banging his head against the wall, only slightly.

Slowly.

Breathe in.

A thump as the left side of his head slams against the wall.

Breathe out.

Thump.

Breathe in.

Thump.

Breathe out.

Maybe he`ll die of a whiplash.

If he`s lucky, he`ll die soon.

The white room is blurring in front of his eyes.

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

When he regains consciousness, he`s just about to slam his head against the wall again, a lot stronger than before.

Bad.

Two bad news in one second.

He _has _regained consciousness and ...

Pain.

His head is pounding.

He is still sitting in the same room, wearing a white t-shirt and white pants. Neither belongs to him.

Strange.

Cold.

Wet.

Warm.

Something is running down his face.

Warm and ... stringy.

Slowly. Tickling his skin.

His head is itching.

He raises his hand, wanting to scratch himself, and breathes in sharply.

Pain.

There is blood on his hand. Red, so very red.

Blood red.

There was blood on his hand. Red, so very red.

Blood red.

Remembrance. A moment, forever burned into his mind.

He is sitting on the floor, staring at his hand. Red.

Charlotte is sleeping.

No.

Not sleep.

Eternal rest.

No awakening.

He wipes his hand on his t-shirt, not wanting to see the blood.

_There`ll always be blood on your hands, even when you can`t see it._

The voice is back. Quiet, mocking, digging through his mind with sharp claws.

_It`s your fault!_

He wants to scream. He wants to scream until his lungs burst and he chokes on his own voice.

Blood is slowly running down his temple.

He wipes it away with the corner of his t-shirt, buries his nose in the cloth to mask the metallic smell.

Cold.

Strange.

Chemical.

Angela always used washing powder that smelled of oranges. He doesn`t know where she got it. He never asked.

A shiver runs through his body.

Oranges. She always smelled of oranges and chocolate.

He can`t understand that she won`t come back. Surely she`ll come soon.

She has to come.

She will save me.

_From what?_

She has saved me before. She`ll do it again.

_Are you sure?_

Save me.

The blood loss is slowly getting noticeable. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot. The room is once again spinning in front of his eyes.

Save me!

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

He opens his eyes.

Again.

A different room. Equally white, just as clinically cold.

Something warm on his back.

Ray of sunshine.

A window?

His head is still hurting.

It doesn`t bother him.

He is sitting upright on the bed, staring into space, lost in a nightmare that`s too horrible to really only be a dream.

No nightmare should be better than reality.

But that`s the way it is.

A sound.

His gaze flickers to the door before he goes back to staring into space, trying to see things that don´t exist.

Footsteps in the hallway.

They`re getting closer.

Someone opens the door.

He doesn`t react to the intruder, almost doesn`t notice the person in front of him at all.

He doesn`t want to see anyone.

Yes, he does.

Angela.

Charlotte.

He wants to see his wife and daughter.

He wants to die.

The person approaches him and the smell of disinfectant and bitter coffee reaches his nose. A hint of perfume.

A woman.

Angela?

_"Hello, Patrick."_

No. Not Angela.

A stranger.

He doesn´t want to be all alone in a room with a strange woman. What would Angela think?

The woman isn`t deterred by his lack of reacting.

_"My name is Sophie Miller."_

He doesn`t care about her name. She can have no name at all. He doesn`t want to see anyone.

She keeps talking to him, he lets her.

She wants him to get better.

Better?

The thought is so ridiculous he`d love to laugh her in the face.

But he has forgotten how to laugh.

Strange, how quickly you forget such things.

The small part of his mind that wants to fight the darkness is analysing his feelings.

There`s not much to analyse.

He doesn`t have any feelings left.

Yes, he does.

_Coldness._

Everything is so cold.

The blood in his veins seems to be frozen.

Ice cold.

_Pain._

He wants to scream but he can`t move.

Noise hurts. Movement hurts.

His heart seems to have frozen to stone sometime and the icy blood has blasted the stone into a thousand pieces.

The shards are cutting his soul.

No.

There is no soul.

There is fire.

He is burning inside and no one notices.

He can`t scream.

The ice in his veins can`t extinguish the fire.

Ashes.

_Guilt._

That`s it.

Guilt.

His fault. All of this is _his fault._

He did it, he enticed the monster.

_Their_ death is his fault.

A shiver runs through his body.

Sophie keeps talking to him.

Even a wall would`ve listened more attentively than he does.

The abyss is opening before his eyes again.

_It´s all my fault._

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

The days pass in a strange alternation between_ the Darkness _and the "normal" darkness. Everything is dark now. The world is black.

Sometimes he emerges and Sophie is there.

Sometimes she isn`t.

Sometimes she`s talking to him, insistently, using words that remain incomprehensible to him.

Sometimes they don`t.

He has gotten used to her presence.

He tells himself he doesn`t care whether she`s there or not.

When she`s there, he feels better.

Only a tiny bit.

Is if one single atom in the whole universe was still alive.

The difference is minimal.

He hears her voice, doesn`t understand a word of what she says.

The sound can`t chase away the darkness which keeps ambushing him, always ready to pull him back down.

_Into nothingness._

But it forces it back, just a little bit.

He knows that he isn`t unconscious when the darkness comes.

He knows that he`s doing things without realizing it.

Once he woke up while Sophie was bandaging his wrists.

How he managed to cut them open?

He doesn´t know.

But on the wall there`s a crimson smiley, laughing.

Not painted, like he does it, but smeared, clumsily.

No one has wiped it off or painted over it.

The smiley stays, laughing at him.

Day and night, whenever he opens his eyes.

He is focusing on it now, focusing on the face.

His eyes are following every line, tracing the way of every drop of blood.

The darkness is tugging at him, wanting to rip him into nothingness again, as it has done so often already.

The smiley retains him.

He is clinging to the painted laugh as if it is his lifeline.

Seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

He is staring at the smiley and Sophie is talking to him.

Sometimes he understands her words.

Sometimes even whole sentences.

_"You can give up and die or you can fight. It´s your choice."_

Die?

Yes, he wants to die.

It has to stop, everything has to stop.

Please.

They don`t let him.

Give up?

He has never given up.

In the circus you are bred to hang on.

Keep going. Keep smiling. Keep moving. On and on and on. Always.

He _can`t _give up.

He doesn`t know how.

Fight.

There seems to be no other choice for him.

Fight against _what_ exactly?

His gaze remains locked on the smiley.

Fight against ... something.

The smiley is laughing at him.

Red blood is forming a stark contrast to the white wall, glowing at him.

Fight against ... this?

The bloody eyes seem to wink at him.

Taunting.

Fight against the blood? The smiley?

No.

Sophie is silent, he can feel her gaze on his face.

She is waiting.

For what? He doesn`t know.

Fight. _Fight!_

Yes.

Somewhere in his head a switch is thrown.

Circus. That`s it.

He was with the circus. Grew up in a circus.

Circus is family.

You protect your family.

You _fight_ for your family.

You fight against ... enemies.

The smiley is still laughing.

Enemies are evil.

The smiley is a symbol.

A symbol of evil.

Who painted it?

The answer is right in front of his eyes, as clear as if it had been written to the wall as well, red as blood.

_Red John._

Sophie gasps.

Has she seen it?

The flash in his eyes.

Hatred.

_Anger._

There are emotions.

Hatred and anger.

A good mixture.

Murderous.

An evil smile threatens to spread on his face.

He doesn´t allow it to.

Sophie mustn`t see it.

Suddenly his thoughts are clearer.

He has to get out of here.

He has to find Red John.

Sophie won`t let him leave.

He has to _kill_ Red John.

_Kill, yes!_

The voice in his head is cheering.

His thoughts are racing.

He has to get out of here. He has to kill Red John. Sophie won`t let him leave as long as she thinks he´s crazy.

He is not crazy.

He is angry. He is dead. He is destroyed.

But he`s alive.

He wants to scream and fight. He wants to see blood.

He wants to kill.

His mind concentrates on this one goal, his gaze still focused on the smiley.

Kill Red John.

It seems so obvious.

Red John has killed his family, has killed _him._

He will kill Red John.

_An eye for an eye._

He doesn`t let the change show.

He has spent too much time in front of cameras, in front of people, has acted and lied and deceived.

He concentrates on his body functions, his vital signs.

His pulse slows down, not a single muscle twitches, his face remains as blank as it was before.

On the outside, he is calm.

On the inside ... only he knows.

Patrick Jane is dead. But he has to live to kill Red John.

So he has to function. He will breath and walk and stand and talk. He will function.

He averts his gaze from the smiley, looks at Sophie instead.

For the first time he consciously looks at her.

For the first time in two months he talks.

_"Help me."_

Her eyes grow wide.

She nods.

_Darkness._

_

* * *

_

It has taken him a long time to get to this point.

He`s standing in the middle of the sidewalk in Sacramento, California.

The sun is shining at his face and he feels it`s warmth.

It can`t melt the ice inside his veins but his skin feels a little less cold.

A little more human.

The sun is keeping the monster at bay, that murderous creature which awoke inside him almost four years ago.

Four years.

Four miserable long years and he has hardly managed to take even one step forward in his hunt.

He has deluded them, he has fooled them all.

After only a few more months Sophie was convinced he was ready to live again.

As if he could ever do that.

He has forgotten how to live.

But he can pretend he still remembers.

He can deceive them all.

No one suspects that he is living in an empty house, an empty shell of what used to be his life.

No one knows that he is sleeping on an old mattress, on the floor of _the_ room, and that a laughing crimson smiley is watching his sleep.

His charm and irresistible smile are opening doors for him.

His bank account does, too.

It was so easy to get into the police station and copy all documents regarding Red John.

He already has most of them anyways, from the time _before_. From the time when the world still existed.

It was so easy to fool them with a smile, a little trick and a bit of hypnotism.

But it hasn`t helped him on.

He know the files by heart, has read everything from eyewitness accounts to autopsy protocols.

He has looked at all the pictures and rechecked every little lead personally.

It hasn`t helped at all.

And when he realized that, there was only one possible course of action.

Actively participating in the hunt, publicly.

Officially.

It wasn`t nearly as hard as he thought it would be, and now he`s standing here.

Here, in front of the CBI headquarters.

Here, where a team of cops is working on finding Red John.

A team to which he belongs as of today.

A small figure comes out of a door and walks across the courtyard towards him.

Dark hair, petite frame, determined stride.

Her facial expression is dark. She isn`t interested in dragging along a consultant.

She has to, though, because her boss wants her to.

He knows all this solely from the way she`s approaching him.

He clothes his face in his most charming, most honest fake smile as she comes to a halt in front of him.

All of his smiles are fake because he has forgotten how a real smile works. But this is the most honest one he`s capable of.

Green eyes are looking at him - estimating and deeply distrusting.

She indignantly offers her hand, a pained smile on her lips.

"Agent Teresa Lisbon, CBI. As of today, I am your boss. If you cause me any trouble, I`ll shoot you and make it look like an accident."

He takes her hand and squeezes it shortly.

She is being serious.

His great looks are bouncing off of her like water of a window pane. It will be hard to mislead her.

"Patrick Jane," he introduces himself, trying not to seem as impolite as his next words will be. "And you should really talk to a psychologist because of that childhood trauma of yours. Who was the alcoholic in your family? Your father or your mother?"

"Stay the hell out of my life!," she hisses at him, turns around and marches right back to the entrance of the CBI building.

The corners of his mouth are twitching as he watches her go and it takes a moment for him to realize that this smile isn`t forced.

Before he can continue to think about what this means, he follows Agent Lisbon into the CBI headquarters.

Follows her into the future.

_Light._


End file.
